I don't turn the heads of pretty girls
I never have, and so I never will;
I don't produce that momentary thrill
Which causes those involuntary twirls
To gape unnecessarily. No curls
Will flounce at me; they stay forever still
Unusually so, as if I chill
Unwittingly whatever force unfurls
Them into joyful motion. Yet I find
Through hosts of heads unturned and eyes upraised
To look on by me as if they were blind
Or I invisible, and though ungrazed
By such innate affection, I don't mind.
I know it's strange; and I too am amazed.
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